


When the Shadow falls and Obscures the Sky, You're the Shine of the Northern Star

by katajainen



Series: 1001 ways of confessing your love: Gigolas edition [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Battle fatigue, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Gore, One Shot, Pelennor Fields, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, dealing violence and dealing with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 15:26:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5591452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katajainen/pseuds/katajainen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite being a dedicated archer, Legolas has no trouble bringing the fight up and close to the enemy. No trouble at all, if the said enemy is an Orc. Things are different on the Fields of Pelennor, and for a moment, the toll of hands-on killing feels too high. Fortunately, Legolas has Gimli to watch his back on the battlefield and hold his hand afterwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Shadow falls and Obscures the Sky, You're the Shine of the Northern Star

**Author's Note:**

> Rated Mature for being as gory I've ever written (which might not be much but still disturbs me a bit).
> 
> I blame this one on overexposure to Joe Abercrombie combined with Tolkien's rather _clinical_ depictions of battle. Just an ugly little something that needed to get written out of my head. Probably somewhat OOC Legolas. Title is stolen and modified from lyrics to _You Are the One_ by Sentenced, who've incidentally written the best music ever for writing angst.
> 
> Author's note: the descriptions of people's gear and the layout of the battle are taken from the book, not the movies. Barbara Strachey's _Journeys of Frodo_ was an invaluable aid to who was where and doing what on the Fields of Pelennor.
> 
> Last but not least: many many thanks to Saraste for the beta. Any and all remaining mistakes and glitches are my own.

Legolas reached for yet another arrow, his fingers slipping imperceptibly on the unfamiliar fletching. His quiver was a jumbled hodgepodge of arrows reclaimed from the mud of Pelennor: Southron, Eastern, Orcish, even some long and fine ones of the Morthond archers, though they missed few enough targets. But all too soon he was running out again and it was down to knife-work.

He preferred the arrows. With the reach the bow of the _galadhrim_ , he didn’t need to see their faces, had no chance to look them in the eye with his knife buried in their flesh, his hand slick with their life’s blood. If only they had been Orcs, but alas, there were few enough of those on this flank, most being driven to the East by the Gondor horsemen, the stragglers ridden down or skewered on the long lances of the knights of Dol Amroth. Brought to the field by the black ships, Aragorn and those he was leading were attacking the Southron rear guard.

And for all their allegiance to the Black Tower, the _haradrim_ were Men, which discomfited Legolas more than he would admit. Ai, but would he have preferred the Orcs! Gladly he would have slaughtered a dozen of the snarling, spitting, cursing, filthy, poisonous creatures, and revelled in seeing the agony and oncoming death twisting their grotesque features, rather than look into one pair of human eyes as the light left them. Grinding his teeth, he pushed his apprehension into the same black hole as his fear of death, and shook the blood off his blade (in Pelagir, in the strange half-light of the Shadow, all blood had seemed black and all enemy faces featureless).

It was the youth that was nearly his undoing. The Southron footmen drew up a hasty formation in the face of their advance. The sunlight glinted off the broad bronze tips of their spears and the plates sewn into their leather armour, the brisk wind whipping their loose flame-red garments. At first, their line held, but as always, it took only one man to start unravelling it. A lone spearman broke off the formation, charging straight at Legolas. The Elf nimbly kicked aside the point aimed at his stomach, stepped inside his opponent’s reach, grabbing a fistful of red cloth. His knife went in under the edge of the golden collar on a backhand stroke and came out trailing a shower of bright blood. 

Whether it was the suddenly-empty hand grasping feebly at his front, or the wet, choking sob (sometimes he wished he could plug his ears from the noises of the battle) or some final flick of sunlight on gore-spattered gold that caused him to look down at his own handiwork, Legolas would never know. What held his eyes he knew: the soft shape of the brown cheek, rapidly turning a livid shade of grey, the mute wide-open terror of the frozen gaze, the barely visible dark fuzz above bloodied lips struggling to form a few last words, the language strange to his ears. Legolas was a poor judge of any Man’s age, but surely a boy this young had no place in battle, had no chance against his own skill honed by the centuries, had no purpose dying in the trampled mud of Pelennor, half bleeding to death, half drowning in his own blood. Legolas’ knees gave way. The hand holding the blade dropped. He couldn’t breathe.

‘Legolas!’ came Gimli’s voice almost immediately. ‘Are you hurt?’ Legolas didn’t look up.

‘I cannot do this. I cannot go on killing their _children_.’ he heard himself say.

‘Mahal wept...’ There was a swish of a blade near him, a meaty crunch, something warm spattering his cheek. 

‘This is not the place–‘ Gimli was shouting now. ‘Look out!’ Something thudded on Gimli’s shield above Legolas’ head. ‘And not the time! Get up!’ Gimli’s shield hand was shaking him by the shoulder. ‘He would have killed you and then **I** would have killed him! Now get moving, you daft Elf!’ he was yelling at his face. Legolas looked at him. Really looked. Gimli was leaning over him, his mail liberally flecked with red, his axe stained with blood and worse, his beard standing on end like flame spun into living wire, a fierce light in his eyes. Strong. Proud. Unwavering.

‘Why?’

And Gimli didn’t say ‘Because you’re my friend.’ or ‘You would have done the same for me.’ or even ‘Because he’s the enemy.’

He said: ‘Because I love you, and I can’t leave you like this.’

Legolas made to speak, but Gimli shook his head, drawing him to his feet instead. ‘ **Not** the time.’ he repeated. ‘Now, let’s see if we can catch up with that battle.’

Blinking, Legolas looked around him and saw that the melée had indeed moved past them, the _haradrim_ being pushed back between their host and the advancing riders of Rohan. He could make out the flag of the white horse snapping in the wind. With a sigh, he set out to find if any of the corpses had a quiver.

* * *

It was near dark as Legolas lay on his bedroll staring at the inside of their tent, painted a flickering mosaic of grey and black and dull orange by the dwindling fires of the camp. He couldn’t close his eyes, not for the images that kept repeating themselves inside his head. He’d much rather have gazed at the open sky, but Gimli had looked like he could use the rest, and so Legolas lay next to him, staring at the canvas, finding no peace in mind or body. They had hardly exchanged a word after the fighting was done, ‘later’ seeming to drift further and further away. Legolas knew Gimli wasn’t sleeping, rolled up in his blanket as he was. Maybe he was restless too, trying to find a way to take back words too easily spoken in the heat of the moment. That was not the sort Legolas took him for, but what did he know about Dwarves? Surely this extended silence from one usually so competent with their words must mean something.

There was a rustle of blankets, as Gimli interrupted his trail of thought. ‘It’s a mighty cruel thing.’ he said softly. ‘Sending children out to do battle.’

Legolas turned to face him and could just about make out his form: lying on his side, leaning on one elbow.

‘ Still – our side is much the same.’ Gimli went on. ‘Remember the Muster of Rohan? Every strong lad able to hold a spear, that’s what they said. And you saw them as well as I: I’d say many were more willing than able.’ He reached out, and gently, carefully, took Legolas by the hand. ‘Weep for them, if you must. But for the love I bear for you, please save it for when the fighting is done. You gave me a fright today.’

Legolas clung to his hand, relishing in the warm strength that moved into his own hand that had grown cold. ‘Such a waste.’ he whispered. ‘Such a terrible waste.’ He felt a tear trickle down his cheek and along the side of his neck into the collar of his shirt. ‘I would spare them, if it were in my power, these Men tricked by Sauron’s false promises. These Men and their children. Oh, what would I give for a battalion of Orcs, for a black, screaming horde of Urûk-hai.’ His empty hand balled into a fist of impotent rage. ‘Them I can hate. _Them_ I can slaughter with glee. For a moment today I almost wished I could fight the battle Helm’s Deep anew,’ he said with a mirthless chuckle. ‘Can you imagine?’ And then the hand left his own and Legolas was left to clutch at Gimli’s shirt instead, as he was drawn tight against a hard, muscular chest. 

‘Yes.’ And Gimli’s voice was a low rumble beneath his ear, stray curls of his loosely braided beard tickling his cheek. ‘I can imagine. Even with the part when I didn’t know whether you were dead or living still.’ Gimli smelled of steel, flecks of rust, of sweat and dust. But he was warm, his heart beating for Legolas to hear. Legolas drew a long shuddering breath, not quite a sob, no matter what it sounded like.

‘But what’s the use of it all?’ he whispered against Gimli’s chest, not sure even if he could hear. ‘What’s the use of all this death? Even if... even if Frodo were to succeed-’ he blinked angry tears from his eyes, ‘how can there ever be peace between these peoples of Men, these warring tribes of Edain, with their children put to the sword, with their crops trampled and burned on the fields, with their houses the pillaged and set ablaze?’ And now all his doubts and fears were in the open, spilling from him in a torrent hastily chosen words. And Gimli listened, his arms strong around Legolas, his broad fingers trailing lazy, soothing circles between Legolas’ shoulder blades. 

‘What more could the future hold, if not more of the same?’ Legolas asked, giving voice to the despair he hadn’t wanted to admit to. ‘We will but exchange the struggle against the Black Tower for eternal petty skirmishes against mortal enemies equally vindictive. You saw how dearly they sold their lives today! Not a single one surrendered. If their minds are so poisoned by the Shadow they won’t run or bend even in the face of certain destruction, how would they sue for peace?’

‘I believe in Aragorn.’ Gimli said simply. ‘If there ever was a king who could forge any kind of lasting peace from this mess, it’s him. Durin’s beard and balls, the man had the _dead_ follow his lead!’ His hand was under Legolas’ chin, tipping his face up to look at him, for the little he saw in the gloom. ‘I’ll have your back, my love. And we’ll hold on. Somehow we’ll make it through.’ said Gimli, his rough voice grown soft. 

‘Love.’ whispered Legolas.

‘Meant every word.’ said Gimli, and Legolas could hear his smile. ‘You’re my daft Elf and I love you.’

Legolas sighed and leaned his face into the hand cupping it. ‘Yes.’ He whispered into the darkness. ‘If I can hold onto you, I think I can win through. You’re my anchor,’ he went on, his voice growing stronger, ‘my solid ground, my fierce Northern star to guide my steps in the Shadow. My love.’

What else there might have been to his pledge was stolen from him by a kiss from wind-chapped lips. Legolas had never been kissed like this, with a gentle passion that warmed him to his very bones. The kiss tasted like sun, sea wind and pipe-weed smoke, and something he had no words for. Legolas worked one hand free, brushing at Gimli’s hair, surprisingly soft and yet coarse under his questing fingers. Given time, he thought could count the calluses in Gimli’s axe-hardened fingers as they moved across his back. The thought was both distracting and comforting. He _wanted_ Gimli to keep touching him so he _could_ count. And surely this was their safe place, a haven from fear and worry and despair, this nest of entwining limbs where hands were free at last to hold and to caress the one they each most desired.

Surely this was enough to hold in their hearts to carry them to the coming dawn and the next, until the very end.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments of all shapes and sizes are much appreciated. Even if you hated it, I'd love to know why. Thank you for reading!


End file.
